A New Day

A New Day

The man doesn’t notice me lying on the floorboards of the backseat when he gets into his BMW. They never do. I listen to the jangle of metal against metal as he finds the right key, hear the thrum of the engine as he turns the ignition, and we’re off. The dark curly hair on the back of his balding head is all I can see of him, but that’s fine. I don’t want to look at him. He turns on his stereo, some lame 70’s music that I can’t stand, but the noise bodes well for me. The likelihood of him hearing me—the rustle of my clothes or perhaps a jaded sigh—is all but nonexistent now. When the time comes, I will catch him completely unaware.

I glance at my watch, see that it’s 11:42, and I feel a rush of urgency.

The car tilts as he descends ramp after ramp, ever downward. We’ll reach the attendant soon, so I cover myself with the dark blanket I brought along again.

One can’t be too careful.

* * *

My mother would have an aneurysm if she knew where I was, never mind if she knew my purpose for being there. She worries about me, which I suppose is only natural.

“A woman can’t be too careful nowadays,” she’s said over and over, everyday since I was a little girl. Her greatest fear is that I’ll be assaulted, mugged, raped, kidnapped, murdered. “Bad men are everywhere, just waiting for an opportunity.”

Well, if anyone would know about the bad men, it’s her. She’s a magnet for every misogynistic bastard on the planet. My first stepfather used to slap her around before she finally worked up the nerve to leave him.

Stepfather Two was an alcoholic who would cheat on her, as well as call us every filthy name he could think of. She divorced my third stepfather when I was thirteen, after he started coming on to me.

The sad thing is they were all a hundred times better than the unprecedented loser she created me with.

I think she gave up after the fourth failed marriage. Who can blame her?

We are alike in that sense. I don’t have a boyfriend, or any romantic prospects. I’ve no interest in acquiring one, either. Unlike me, though, I think Mom gets lonely.

Anyway, call it psychotic clinginess, but Mom can’t make it through the day without calling to check up on me at least once. I always assure her I’m fine, even when I’m not. Just to make her life easier, I call her every morning and every night to check in, and have recently taken to carrying a pager. Ever since I moved out, I make sure to go to Mass with her every Sunday and Wednesday, and we have dinner together more often than not.

She still calls.

My mother would die if she knew where I was.

* * *

The darkness of the blanket covering me is like a cocoon, suffocating.

The hump in the floorboard behind the center console is digging painfully into my back, and my legs are falling asleep. I’m covered in sticky sweat, and I’m getting restless. The green glow of my watch dial says that it’s 11:46.

Can’t this guy drive any faster?

Finally, the car stops and I freeze. I hear the driver talk, his voice jovial but tired, and he’s answered by the bored attendant. I continue to wait, statue-still in my hiding place, as they exchange whatever needs to be exchanged.

“Have a good night and drive safely, Mr. Bradley,” the attendant says, but I can tell that he doesn’t mean it. I’ve used that tone too many times not to recognize it in others. He doesn’t care if anyone has a pleasant evening, but he’s obligated to offer the false sentiment anyway.

A second or two later the engine revs, the car lurches forward, and my unwitting chauffeur pulls out into the largely abandoned streets of downtown. I feel safe to move again, and pull the smothering blanket off of my face, taking a deep breath of the cool night air.

I look at the watch again. 11:48. I can’t delay any longer. I count to thirty to make sure we’re far enough away from the attendant’s booth that he can’t be a witness before I sit up.

Over the radio and the whisper hum of tires against asphalt, the man doesn’t hear me move. He doesn’t notice me slide into the backseat, nor does he hear the click as I fasten the seatbelt. He doesn’t realize I’ve pulled the .45 caliber until I press it to the back of his head.

They never do.

* * *

I don’t remember my dad very well. He didn’t die until I was twelve, but I hadn’t seen him since I was five. Mom didn’t take me to visit him often, for which I don’t blame her. I don’t think he missed me. I never got a letter or birthday card from him growing up, but my father wasn’t the kind of guy who thought about such things. I’m not entirely sure that he even knew when my birthday was.

My father had what’s commonly referred to as Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Among other things, he lacked the ability to identify with the needs or feelings of others.

I’ve learned to live with it. I’ve long since realized that I wasn’t missing anything by not having him around. Nothing good, that is.

* * *

He goes rigid when he discovers he isn’t alone, that he’s suddenly stepped into the starring role in the oldest urban legend ever told. The armed stranger in the backseat; classic. When he feels the barrel of the gun press against the back of his head, he begins to turn to look at me.

“Don’t,” I say. There is no threat in my voice, my tone isn’t sharpened by anger or anxiety. Regardless, he halts. “Don’t move.”

He stares straight ahead, and says nothing.

“Keep going,” I command. “Turn when I tell you to turn without delay or arguing.”

“Who are you?” he asks in a choked whisper.

They always want to know who I am. I always tell them.

“My name is Angel.”

* * *

Angelique, actually. Dad named me. He said that it was the most beautiful name that he had ever heard, and—as his daughter was the most beautiful in the entire world—it was only appropriate.

Whatever. Everyone calls me Angel. I also know that it was his disorder talking. I’m not bad to look at, but I’m no eternal beauty. Of course, my father considered everything he did to be greater than average, just for the simple fact that it was he that did it.

My first memory of Dad was of him holding me up in the air over his head, grinning. “Look at you, Angelique,” he stated triumphantly. “My gorgeous girl. I’m going to live forever, now.”

* * *

“What do you want?” he asks. That’s typically the second question.

“I want your car and your money,” I lie. “You’re going to drive us to a secluded spot, where you’re going to get out of the car and hand over the keys. So, keep both hands on the wheel and don’t try anything cute, or I’ll blow your brains out and take my chances in the wreck.”

He doesn’t answer, not that I had expected him to. I see the cords of his neck move, see his jaw muscles bulge when he grinds his teeth. Cue the anger. Now that he’s certain that he’s not going to die, he’s furious that his car is about to be stolen. I almost smile. These guys are always so predictable.

“Turn right here,” I tell him, and he obeys.

11:50.

* * *

My mother was very pretty, if a bit naïve. She’s very sweet, very demure, very committed. I love my mother, as much as I am capable of that emotion. I know that she loves me.

On that same note, I can see why my mom fell in love with my dad. My dad has had a lot of women, and those that have spoken out on the matter all say the same thing. He was very charming, very eloquent, very attentive.

He was a dynamic presence that they couldn’t resist. So full of life, bursting with this great energy, and he was so kind . . .

At first. They all say the same thing. At first, my father was great.

* * *

“Why are you doing this?” he demands suddenly.

I look up from my watch. 11:53. “Why am I doing this?” I echo, sure I misunderstood.

“Yes,” he says, and almost turns to glare at me before he remembers the gun. “You can’t earn a living on your own? You have to steal from those that work hard for everything they have?”

I can’t help but smirk a bit at this. Is he serious? The reasons carjackers do what they do is fairly straightforward, I would think.

But, I’ve got to admire his audacity. He’s basically insulting a person holding a loaded weapon to his head.

Thank goodness this is almost over.

“One could argue that you deserve it,” I reply.

* * *

Hard work? I doubt this guy knows the true meaning of the word. The parking structure in which I broke into his car was adjacent to an upscale office building. He is wearing a tailored business suit and drives a BMW. What does he do all day? Talks on the phone? Sits behind a desk in an air conditioned office? Has his secretary bring him coffee and run his errands? Takes two hour business lunches?

No. I work. I’m on my feet all day, carrying heavy trays, standing in a burning hot kitchen, feigning courtesy with rude and condescending customers. I go home stinking of smoke and grease, and my complexion has taken a turn for the worse lately. I am burned, blistered, calloused and scarred. Sexual harassment is a part of my every day life.

I disappointed my mother. She always wanted more for me. It broke her heart that I didn’t go to college, but I had no interest in spending another four years of my life paying through the nose for an education that would largely go unused. I don’t even know what I would have studied. I do read—psychology books mostly—but I had no interest in turning that into my life. Besides, such a thing may have been a little clichéd in my case.

If I were a more impertinent child, I would ask her why she never went to college. Even Dad had almost managed to obtain a degree in law. Mom is smart, and a hard worker. She managed to raise me completely on her own, since no one would help her.

I never asked her why she didn’t go, because I already know the answer.

Mom had the brains to be whatever she wanted. She lacked the ambition and confidence.

* * *

“Deserve it?” he remarks incredulously, angrily. “No one deserves this.”

“I disagree,” I say. We are in a bad section of town, surrounded mostly by empty buildings and decay. My watch tells me it is 11:57. “Turn into that abandoned gas station and cut off the engine,” I say, pressing the gun against the back of his skull to reinforce what will happen if he disobeys.

I can feel the animosity rolling off him in black waves. I know that he longs to turn around and throttle me, and only the gun keeps him from doing so. He is bigger, stronger, meaner than me. He hates me—hates all women—and wants to make me suffer. At one time, such a man would have frightened me.

No longer.

* * *

There’s a difference between a psychotic and a psychopathic personality.

Most people don’t realize that.

A psychotic person’s mind and personality are severely disorganized, and their sense of reality is impaired. Schizophrenia, paranoia, manic-depression; actual diseases with treatment and hope for the sufferer. Psychotics can be helped.

A psychopath, however, is a person whose behavior is largely amoral and antisocial. Someone who lacks remorse or shame and has criminal, sometimes even perverse, tendencies. People who have serious personality defects, but often display no outward symptoms of mental illness.

The former, one can usually spot. The latter look and act just like everyone else. That’s what makes them so scary.

* * *

He stops the car and cuts the engine, and the silence is suddenly so loud. The broken windows of the gas station yawn like black mouths, the world beyond them void. The walls are still blackened from when the place was torched in the riots a few years ago. The city hasn’t gotten around to tearing it down yet, as urban renewal is often low on any city councilman’s priority list.

This is a dark place, a dangerous place. The police seldom come to this part of the city, though the sounds of gunfire and sirens are night music here. I can tell that he¬—a middle-class man who obviously has more than his fair share of disposable income—is uncomfortable being here.

11:58.

“I know about you,” I say quietly, but my voice is clearly audible in the small space we share. “I know everything about you. I know your secrets, Mr. Bradley.”

His hands tighten around the steering wheel as every fiber of his being goes rigid in shock. All at once, being robbed is the least of his concerns. Now, he knows why I’m here.

“How do you know my name?” he asks, his throat so tight that the words come out in a terrified hiss.

“I know about you,” I repeat with a weary shake of my head. “No matter what I do, there are always more of you around.”

* * *

My father’s name is known to almost everyone, even a decade after his death. My mother and I don’t tell anyone he’s my father, though. Those that find out never understand.

My mom knew Dad before he was arrested. She believed him when he said that he never did the terrible things he was accused of. How could she not believe him? The man she loved and the man that was depicted in the media were completely irreconcilable. My father cherished her, lavished her with attention, and was kind and considerate toward her. Granted, they hadn’t been together long, but Mom worshipped him.

Enough to marry him in prison. Enough to stick with him through a long, drawn out trial. Enough to believe him when he told her the charges against him were part of a conspiracy. Enough to give birth and valiantly struggle to keep her family together, even though other women around the country claimed to be corresponding with my father in prison.

She believed him for years, until I was five and he confessed to everything in the hopes of leniency. I can only imagine how disillusioned she was.

* * *

11:59.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “What secrets. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Look at me,” I tell him. “Look at me now.”

He flinches. “No,” he says, turning his head away so that there is absolutely no way he can see my face. “I don’t want to. It’s better that I can’t describe you. Just take the car and go.”

“I don’t want your car,” I tell him. “I don’t care about that kind of thing. You should listen, Mr. Bradley. You should know why I chose you.”

He says nothing. The pounding of his heart is almost audible.

“A couple of weeks ago, you and your family came into the restaurant where I work,” I say, and he shakes his head in chagrin. The less he knows about me, the safer he feels. “I was your waitress.”

“Then you know that I’m married,” he replies curtly. “I have a family that needs me.”

“You were a real asshole, Mr. Bradley,” I continue. “You sent back your drink, your salad and your dinner, claiming that I didn’t get them right.”

“Is that what this is about?” he exclaims.

I grin. “No, I’m used to your type,” I say. “People regard waitresses as disposable servants. It’s thankless work.”

“Then—”

“Your wife was wearing a long-sleeved shirt,” I say as quickly as I can.

“It’s summer, Mr. Bradley. Your daughter was beautiful, but she had a haunted look in her eyes and she barely touched her food. Your little boy kept his eyes on the table, his posture was straight, and he never said a word. Everyone was impeccably dressed, perfect. Not a hair out of place. But I could feel how much they all resented you.”

The back of his neck gets darker as the blood rushes to his face in resentment. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he informs me.

“You’re the type who has to have everything his way, a real control freak.” I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, preparing for what has to be done. “God help anyone who doesn’t comply with your vision of how your world must be. You beat your wife and kids. You probably touch your daughter, too. Hell, maybe you touch your son. Or both. And what made you stay so late in the office, Mr. Bradley? Work . . . or your secretary? But you don’t see your own evil, do you? You think you have the right, because everything is yours.”

He makes a low, choked sound. “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice a snarl of antipathy.

I ignore his denial. I have yet to get a confession out of anyone.

* * *

I like to think that I’m like my mother. I look like her, though I have Dad’s green eyes. There are no pictures of him in our house, as Mom tried to scrub every trace of him from our lives when he confessed. I have read every book and article ever written about him, however, and they were full of pictures. I am relieved that even though his blood lurks within me, it is not immediately apparent.

Mom moved far away when she learned that she had been deceived and served Dad with divorce papers. She changed our names, cut and dyed her hair so that no one would recognize her. She even had his name removed from my birth certificate.

Aside from undoubtedly resenting her for taking away his “married man with a child” status, which he used as a bargaining chip for clemency, I don’t think he missed her much. I don’t think he cared that she left him. He was angrier that one of the stipulations of the court was that he wasn’t allowed to make any profit from his notoriety.

* * *

“You can’t do this,” he said, knowing beyond doubt what my plans are now. “You’ll never get away with it. Just go, and—”

“You paid with a credit card. That’s how I was able to find you. I’ve been watching you for days, waiting for an opportunity. Bastards like you think you’re untouchable.”

“Please,” he says. “My family needs me. They’ll lose everything.”

“You’re insured,” I reply sweetly. “Nice try, though.”

“You can’t do this,” he says, and I hear the panicked crack in his voice.

I see that he has a small picture of his family dangling from the rearview mirror. He likes to keep his possessions close to him. I go back to watching the second hand on my watch.

“Tomorrow, your family will wake up, and they’ll learn that you’ll never hurt them or anyone else ever again,” I remark. “Don’t delude yourself into believing they won’t be relieved.”

* * *

My father was convicted of the rape and murder of eleven women, the youngest of which was only fourteen years old. Dad claimed that there were many, many more, but they could only get him for eleven. They only had undeniable evidence for eleven women, only had eleven names for his victims, so only eleven families ever found closure.

Dad didn’t mind discussing his sins, would talk to anyone who could get permission from the maximum security prison to interview him. Dad loved the attention, no matter what form it came in.

Whenever someone is executed, a group of demonstrators will congregate outside of the prison gates to protest capital punishment. That didn’t happen with my father. The people that gathered for him all held signs telling him to burn in hell, and that he deserved his punishment.

And, at the stroke of midnight, my father was declared dead by lethal injection. Mom and I stayed up to watch the news that night.

* * *

The gun blast is deafening in the small confines of the car, and instantly the windshield is painted red. My ears ring and I flinch when the warm spray of his blood mists my face. At once, the interior reeks of acrid smoke and bodily waste.

I am a flurry of movement. First, I replace the gun in its holster, then reach around the corpse to take his wallet from the breast pocket of his suit. I only bother with the cash, as credit cards are traceable. Next, I strip off the brunette wig and clean my face with a few baby wipes taken from my large pockets, which I then discard on the floor. After that, I take off the dark coveralls and faux leather gloves I’m wearing so that there’s no longer any trace of his blood on me. Finally, I take the container of lighter fluid from my pocket and go about dousing everything. When the bottle is empty, I throw it with the rest of the mess.

I roll down the window and look around to make sure there are no witnesses. When I’m sure I’m alone, I get out of the car. I take the book of matches—courtesy of the restaurant in which I work—from my jean pocket and strike one. I use the first to light the rest, then toss the flames through the open window.

I take several quick steps back as cleansing flames billow out of the car. They encompass the interior in seconds. I continue to back toward the street, watching to make sure that the fire will burn long and hard.

The emergency response in this section of town is terrible. I’ll be long gone by the time authorities get here, even if I delay for a moment or two to ensure that the fire destroys any trace that I have ever been.

No hairs, no fibers, no prints, no witnesses, no motive. Nothing at all to tie me to this place.

I walk quickly to a bus stop several blocks away. The few people standing there don’t even look up at me. I don’t look at them either, lest I see evil lurking in the eyes of another man. If I do, I won’t be able to rest until I’ve removed him from the gene pool.

* * *

I like to think that I’m like my mother, but I can’t deny that my father’s blood courses in me. The difference, I suppose, is that I don’t do what I do for perverse pleasure.

For every innocent life my father stole, I will repay with interest. A corrupted spirit isn’t as good as a pure one, therefore it takes more to restore the balance. I prey upon depraved, malicious men, for after years of studying my father and others like him, I’m able to recognize such individuals when I see them.

They are everywhere.

I will continue my holy duty until I die or am physically stopped. I have never once suffered hesitation or remorse in my work. I think of the poor women that died by my father’s hand, and it steels my resolve.

My father and I are both killers, yes, but I am not like him.

I check my watch. 12:13. Mass is in a few hours, and the money I took will be my offering. Mom is waiting, and I still need a bath.

I take a deep breath. My father’s soul debt, which I have taken upon myself, is a little closer to being settled.

The bus pulls up just as I hear sirens in the distance.

And so begins another day.